Posts Tagged: the last book i loved
I read Alice Munro’s books in benders. It usually takes me less than two days to finish one of her collections, and while reading it, I make and break promises to myself—to stop after this story, to take a shower, to run an errand just for the exercise or maybe see a friend (or else around eleven PM, I will find myself regretting how restless and dirty I am, still in last night’s pajamas, which are now exactly my body temperature.)...more
Maps, at their best, are more than representations of the world. They are worlds unto themselves—endlessly explorable, enigmatic, complicated, and alive. I remember the first globe I owned as a kid. I liked to spin it on its axis, as hard as I could, as if it were the big-money wheel from some cheesy game show, Wheel of Fortune or The Price is Right....more
The last book that I loved was You Shall Know Our Velocity! by Dave Eggers, which is about two friends, Will and Hand, who come into $32,000 around the same time one of their friends dies unexpectedly.
They are devastated by his death, and decide that they can’t keep the money because of the pain it represents. The book unfolds from Will’s perspective as the two friends impulsively embark on a globe-crossing adventure to give the money away to people they think deserve it....more
There are too many good writers for me to keep track of so, mostly for the sake of convenience, I categorize them: Koontz writes thrillers, Franzen does literature, King fills the world with horror, Snickett delights children.
The problem is that this pigeon-hole system, though it works with some authors, it woefully misrepresents others to the point of exclusion....more
It was in Crete that I first came to curse short skirts. Six of them — three cotton, two denim — I had with me in a navy blue American Traveler suitcase, which sat, for the duration of my three-week vacation in the small fishing village of Mochlos, atop a rickety luggage rack in the corner of a small bedroom in a thirty euro a night pension....more
According to Europa Edition’s website, Elena Ferrante, one of Italy’s most important and acclaimed contemporary authors, has successfully shunned public attention and kept her whereabouts and her true identity concealed. I understand.
Troubling Love is a brilliant rendering of a woman who looks too closely at love and sex....more
Every time I watch a porno—whether it’s Lesbians in the Produce Section or Cheerleader Tryouts with Coach Lester—I start critiquing the plot, the acting, and even the lighting. Why doesn’t, I ask myself, a real director make a porno, a real director with trained thespians and a script from a literary talent; but not just a porno—a smut flick, an all-out fuckfest?!...more
I didn’t need any books: I was finishing up grad school in Idaho and moving to—well—that wasn’t quite known to me. But here was a building on the Latah County Fairgrounds full of books, and here was Satori in Paris by Jack Kerouac among them, a slim Black Cat paperback with a blue Eiffel Tower backed in red on the cover....more
How our living selves affect the afterlife has been, and will continue to be, a matter of debate. In literature alone, countless stories have explored the stages of death, of grieving, and that of otherworldly retribution. In Midnight Picnic, Nick Antosca leaves religion out of the discussion and instead explores feelings of abandonment, anger and regret....more
Why is the second person such a natural and addictive tense–perhaps the only honest one–when writing about drug abuse and a foggy recovery?
For years, you haven’t been able to stop asking this question. Reading Patrick deWitt’s Ablutions: Notes for a Novel, you are asking it again, vocally (a real dinner-party silencer), by mistake or with motivations hidden from even yourself....more
I remember being 18 years old, secretly thinking that all the good writers were dead or past their prime. I wanted to be born in the twenties, where wilderness was untamed and fiction was wide open. I knew there must be someone great out there, but the only writers I had loved were the Hemingways and Steinbecks and Fitzgeralds I had come across in English class....more
I loved this book. Haunting prose. Exotic locale. Existentialist themes. I stayed up much too late to read it, enchanted – entranced even – only to wake up with bags under my eyes and vague memories of desert-sun dreams.
The Sheltering Sky, by Paul Bowles, is an incredible story of two people wrestling with (and running from) their freedom, as they rush about between desert towns, chasing a specter as ephemeral as the sand djinn, themselves – their love for each other....more
Everything from the theme of creation to the understated technique resonates; it is a book of poetry which has inspired both reflection and furious meditations of my own as I spin my own arcs from Bidart’s example. It is excellent art....more
“Remember, Lord, my ship is small and thy sea is so wide!” – Joshua Slocum, sailing through a storm south of Tierra del Fuego.
When Joshua Slocum (author of Sailing Alone Around the World, first published in Great Britain by Sampson Law in 1900) arrived in Apia, Samoa at the house of Robert Louis Stevenson on July 16, 1896, he was a third of the way to becoming first person to sail single-handedly around the world....more
Not Anne Carson....more
If he had not been such a pacifist, Kurt Vonnegut would have made a hell of a boxer.
I say this knowing full well that Vonnegut was not an impressive physical specimen. His posture was miserable, his countenance was haggard and his lungs were lacquered with so much tar from smoking unfiltered Pall Malls you’d have thought he’d spent his life paving interstate highways....more
I paid $2 for a bargain-bin copy of Best Music Writing 2007. The price tag still covers “s” and “i.”
It’s guest edited by Robert Christgau. I’d pay two dollars for anything with contributions by David Byrne, Sasha Frere-Jones, Jonathan Lethem and others because I have high expectations for those writers....more
In classic noir fashion, Sick City opens with a death.
Jeffrey, a male prostitute junkie, goes to wake up his lover and sugar daddy (a retired Los Angeles cop with a taste for kinky sex) only to find him dead. Author Tony O’Neill wastes no time in establishing his distinctive tone: “Jeffrey stared mutely at the body for a minute....more
The term “Horror Vacui” has two definitions, both of which serve as a useful framework while skirting the abyss hinted at throughout Heise’s alternately gloomy and beautiful poems....more
Would I find Cortazar?
But I wasn’t really looking for Cortazar when I read his masterpiece, Hopscotch. I was, I’m sorry to say, looking for myself. And just to make the cliché complete, I was looking for myself while living a bohemian existence in Buenos Aires, with little idea of how I got there or where I was going next, after quitting a corporate job in New York....more
If you couldn’t tell by the last name of “Cohen,” I am a Jew. And not surprisingly, I find myself with a proclivity for Jewish-American fiction. Maybe it’s because of my religious (perhaps cultural is a better term) background or the fact that I took a Jewish-American fiction class in college....more
I should say at the outset that while Bullet Park is a good book, and in my opinion a great book, it is not a sound book.
Cheever is rightly (though myopically) criticized for never having really solved the novel, and most of the five he wrote, including both Bullet Park and even the one generally considered his best, Falconer, show his struggle plainly: He was a peerless short story writer, and when he takes on the novel it’s a bit like a baseball player who never really learned how to swing a golf club....more
It’s fitting that I only finally read The House of Mirth, Wharton’s great novel about the decline and fall of a socialite by the name of Lily Bart, around the time I was leaving New York.
Given my current state of affairs, it comes as no surprise that the story of how someone else lost their New York would speak across years of distance and unfamiliar social custom....more
I’m a horrible gift-giver. I’m the person who gave you a gift certificate on your birthday, didn’t realize you’d expect a gift on our anniversary, and cooked “Christmas dinner” in lieu of a wrapped present. In short, you shouldn’t expect much from me....more
It’s never too late to read a book you should have read when you were 21, or to find a lost love or to realize that everything is interlinked and woven tight and turns back on itself.
I say this even though I only just figured it out last month when a lover 15-years-lost and I sat with beers between us and a two days worth of conversation to be had....more
In Firework, a novel that starts in the gutter and never once looks at the stars, Eugene Marten accomplishes two extraordinary feats. Not only does the book establish Marten, author of In the Blind and Waste, two other bleak miracles, as one of our finest contemporary prose stylists, but it also introduces its publisher, Tyrant Books, as one of our best purveyors of contemporary fiction....more
Short stories have never attracted me; the shock of moving from one to the next is too great. Just as I submerge fully in a new world, floating along on some character’s bliss or bitterness, I’m locked out. Disorientation results, even as the river of prose flows on to the next best thing....more